it is cold
my ******* are hard
I'm not fond enough of you
to care whether you think of me as appropriate or otherwise
I drink because I like it when my vision matches the blur of my mind
a boy I don't know came up to me at the gay bar
he caressed my face and walked away and then walked back
to apologize for not being able to contain himself
his friend also apologized on his behalf and assured me that
it is not his friends fault that I am so charming
naturally I smiled in comprehensive shyness
it has been a while since a touch has felt like home
it has been a while since home has felt like home
you will fall in love with all the wrong girls
you will ******* your way out of the responsibilities of growing up
you will catch the attention of strangers
and you will mean so much to them
so many things
so many thoughts
so many names left unknown
sit out with me in stormy weather
we're both naive, broken, and delirious
with not much else to do, do it with me
roaming poet of the night, give me your words
*oh, pour me another drink
and punch me in the face
you can call me Nancy

the night has a thousand eyes.
only two of them make my heart flutter.
I love poetry because it makes me love.
there's a certain art to crying.
there's a certain charm to sadness.
I've a profound desire for long train rides to somewhere.
I've a strange frenzy for mail packages with my name written on them.
they remind me that I exist. they remind me that I am not infinite.
I don't know what it is about tomorrow, but I know I'll never be the same.
unsentimental, driving around, like the future is supposed to be.
before you go crossing that bridge in your mind, again
darling you're loved, they love you
I love you
I love you
*I'll love

quite frankly,
I am sick of all my words.
the clock ticks,
I keep sleeping.
marry me for my love, please.
for my love above all things.
choose my love over myself.
this is your hand
these are my insecurities
this is the rain,
this is what it does to you
through me.

people tend to look at you funny when you're by yourself.
a few give the stare of sympathy; apologetic for your being alone.
but I don't mind it, really. not at all.
I choose my solidarity. I enjoy my own company.
I enjoy the conversations of my thoughts with my heart.
I enjoy sitting at a table for three, alone, at a café underground.
I take my time, I take slow bites of my sandwich and long sips of my tea.
I write. I listen.
To the echoes of poetry in the pit of my stomach,
to other people's conversation.
I wonder why they choose to discuss the weather instead of their emotions.
I wonder if they have a favorite song, and what that song does to them.
I wonder which of all is their favourite colour.
I observe endlessly their gestures.
Their faces, the slightly visible creases beneath their eyes,
their humor, their tension, their kindness.
The waitress, keeping count of her tips when there's no one in line.
The artificial display of burning firewood on the plasma television.
Entwined dim lights and origami lanterns hanging down from the walls.
MGMT's Kids playing in the background of pool table and ceiling fan noises.
Control yourself, take only what you need from me.
I dedicate songs to myself. I disagree with their message.
Unapologetically, I pass time in the cinema of my mind.
It helps me connect with the anxious, suffocating,
void and pending urging twenty-one-year-old emotions beneath my veins.
Solitude helps me cope with myself.

And you pushed me around in a shopping cart in the snow
while I explained to you my strange fascination with candles
why I find them to be lovely
and how they also make me sad
because no matter how much they burn, burn, burn
like Kerouac's fingertips in the night
once its flare reaches the bottom
there is no coming back

And the day after I told you this
you picked me up from school
without saying a word
we drove in your car
to our secret spot

We got off the car
you took off your jacket
lied it flat on the ground
and directed me to sit

As I did
you pulled a paper box out from your backpack
quietly
you handed it to me

Without questioning
I delicately pulled the mint green twine
until the paper box opened itself

Wrapped in thin tissue paper was a candle
and a tiny pack of Birdie
that held only two matches

Not knowing where this was going
I placed them in front of me

Gently you proceeded
and sat across the unlit candle
and two matches placed between us

We stayed in stillness for a moment
staring intently into each others eyes

I reached down for the tiny pack
and handed you a match

Taking your time
you stroke the match
as if setting flame to an unwanted photograph

You lit the candle
still in-between us both
still without exchange of words

You sat there with me and watched the shift of
its burn-rates blend with the likeness of the sun

And when it began to sputter uncontrollably
and when I began to cry
you sat there with me, still
this time by my side
breaking the silence

Quietly you whispered
in the open space before us
as if making proclamation to yourself
and to the sky

"This light will not grow dim"

And every day after you said this
I've waited for you after school

Without saying a word
I drive my car
to our secret spot

Getting off the car
I take off your jacket
and lay it flat on the ground

I take out the paper box
and place the empty candle jar and single match
before me

- - -

*your light has not grown dim
although I sit here
without the candle of your eyes to look into
I can still feel you burning
in the core of my soul

There is something intimate in the way you place commas in sentence.
It's as if each paragraph alone is a love letter within a love letter.
You say "Gladys, good morning. I love you."
And I sort of melt a little on the inside.
You say, "*******, Gladys. Never, never tell me that
what I feel for you is not love."
And I know it in my veins and in my mind,
which are more endearing than my heart,
that I love you, too.

I hope you can feel the sincerity in my commas.